a/n: I originally jotted down the beginning portion of this piece at the start of my memoir journey in what I call my “sticky notes¹” document. This was before I started writing in earnest, as I needed to dedicate several months to building an over 100+ page timeline of my late dad’s life. Because of the grim nature of the events leading up to his death and how he ultimately died, this was a difficult time for me. I still have bad days sometimes and occasionally feel overwhelmed by the sadness that plagued my dad’s final years, but now that I’m writing and not knee-deep in the nitty-gritty details of his life, I’m much happier. So, dear readers, please know that this painful chapter of my life has passed and I’m doing much better.

I need to understand.

How can I be just like Dad, relentlessly ignoring my body’s cry for help?² I feel the thud… thud… thud of my heartbeat slowing, defying my rising anxiety, and I wonder: Did you feel this same panic, Daddy? Did you struggle to draw breath before the end? Or was it quick, like the nice ME assured me? I think she was lying. Why can’t I accept her gentle reassurance? Why must I push, push, push —

I need to understand, and I know I’m not dying, not the way you did. It only feels like it. This is just a panic attack, and it’s necessary for me to understand. This will pass. It’s just a panic attack. I must understand, so I take another gulp of Tito’s and wait for enlightenment.

After Dad drank himself to death, I started drinking the same brand of vodka he did.

For a brief period, I was a social drinker no more, boldly walking to oblivion’s edge. Like a fool, I peered into the inky abyss that had consumed my dad, expecting to see a pair of mismatched eyes looking back up at me. I was desperate to figure him out, and nothing I was doing (at the time) was working. I despaired. There was a hopeless ache inside me I couldn’t keep ignoring, but I hadn’t had my come-to-Jesus moment yet. That would come a few weeks later.

One afternoon, my little sister came by my house for a visit. When she came inside, she saw two empty handles of vodka in the kitchen. I don’t think she mentioned it to me, but her face spoke volumes. When I think about how lame my excuses must have sounded to her, I cringe.

Even now, while typing this out, I’m embarrassed at how ridiculous I sound. But I truly hoped I could understand my dad by drinking like him, because I felt like I had no alternatives. (I hadn’t yet learned about Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir, which changed everything for me.) I’m grateful for my sister’s presence that day; she woke me up to reality, and I went back to being a social drinker after Libby’s visit.

Whenever I think about this story, I feel the shame that Libby’s face wrought in me that day burn bright. I never want to lose that feeling or forget how easy it could be for someone like me, the daughter of an alcoholic, to become one herself. I was playing with fire, risking everything for something that would never give me what I needed. The answers I needed were always inside me, which takes time to tease out, but anything worth doing usually does.

1. My sticky notes document is where I compile the ideas/musings I have, usually late at night, which I typically write down in my Notes application on my phone. ↩︎
2. By telling myself it’s for “science,” or so I can understand why Dad drank the way he did, and how he felt when he was drinking. ↩︎

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

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